


Parchment & Mithril

by flakedice



Series: Green Hills [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BAMF! Bilbo, Bag End, Grief/Mourning, Hobbiton, Homophobia, Lobelia is a nasty piece of work, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Hobbit Big Bang 2017, The Shire, Xenophobia, home is never the same
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-21 11:46:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11356860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flakedice/pseuds/flakedice
Summary: Bilbo Baggins is not the Hobbit he used to be before taking off on his adventure.  Lobelia knows he's hiding something.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [The Hobbit Big Bang](http://hobbitbigbang.livejournal.com) 2017\. A continuation of the piece 'Parchment & Mithril' which is now chapter one. 
> 
> A big thank you to [slythay](http://slythay.livejournal.com/) for being my artist this year. (Link to follow) And to [peaches](http://peaches.livejournal.com/) for ensuring the fun continued this year :D

Bang!  **Bang!** BANG!  The sound of the knocks echoed across the hillside.

The green door shuddered in its frame but failed to yield.  Bungo might have been useless in every other respect but Bag End had been his finest work.

The thought only enraged Lobelia further.  She hammered harder on the green door that had been so close to being hers.  “Bilbo Baggins!  I know you’re in there!”  She banged out another series of hard knocks, eyes darting to the leaf-obscured bay window, the meticulous garden beyond.

Movement caught her eye and she turned in time to see a curtain fall back in the smial down the lane.  Bell Gamgee, the impertinent upstart.  The year Bilbo had left Bag End in their hands had given them ideas above their station.  Lobelia had a _right_ to Bag End, no matter what they said.  The Thain should never have given their words so much weight.  What did they know of Bilbo’s fitness as a Baggins?

Lobelia glared at the cosy little smial, its garden as well manicured as Bag End.  When Bag End was hers, they would learn their place.  Bilbo had been sickly since his return.  And with no children, Bag End rightfully belonged to her.

Soon, she hoped.

Lobelia raised her fist to knock harder, only to fall forward as the door finally opened.

Bilbo peered out at her from behind the door with reddened eyes.  He was pale and thin, his hair hanging almost limp over his shoulders.  If what Lobelia had heard was true, he had barely gone outside since his return.  Unsociable.  Bilbo was even odder than before he had run off on his unnatural adventures.  Running away with dwarves!  Bilbo had always been strange with his interest in the other races.  Unbalanced.  Now he looked like he was teetering on the edge.

And ill.  The hand that grasped the green door was almost skeletal, trembling around the wood.

Maybe she could convince the Thain that Bilbo should stay with Primula.  The stupid girl would be willing to take him in, leaving Bag End to Lobelia…

“Lobelia.”  Even his voice sounded dead.  Bilbo’s hand had tightened on the door, as if he was going to slam it shut.

Lobelia sneered, stepping forward and wedging a foot in the doorway.  “You might fool the others, Bilbo Baggins!”  No one shut their door on Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.  She pushed forward, forcing Bilbo to stumble back, and made her way inside.  “They say you’re too unwell for visitors but I know Hamfast Gamgee was visiting you this morning.”

Gladys Chubb had told her about Hamfast’s movements at lunch.  That he had visited Bilbo early morning.  And that he had stayed for morning tea.

Bilbo’s mouth tightened, his dull dazed gaze suddenly turning into a sharp stare.

Lobelia cut him off before he could say a word.  She wasn’t going to give him the chance to use his silver tongue.  “Surely you remain enough of a gentlehobbit to invite your cousin in for tea.”  She gave him a sharp sweet smile.

Bilbo’s expression twisted – not at all happy to be caught in a corner.  But even wild and and quite obviously _unbalanced_ after cavorting with elves and dwarves, he still clung to his stubborn Baggins arrogance/pride.  He wouldn’t refuse her _now_ , Lobelia reflected smugly, when his reputation lay in tatters.  Not if he wanted to preserve the respectable facade of Bilbo Baggins of Bag End.   Not without starting _more_ rumours.

And from the look on Bilbo’s face, he knew it.  He stepped back, clearing the doorway.  “Will you join me for tea, Lobelia?”  It sounded like the words were spoken from between grit teeth.

Lobelia swept into the hallway proper, turning her nose up at his ink-stained attire.  “Very well, cousin.”  Even as she spoke, Lobelia’s eyes roved the foyer.  The mighty beams and high ceiling with its fancy iron chandelier.  Belladonna’s glory box stood nearby, on mocking display.  A haughty proclamation of wealth that Bilbo always flaunted.  But the chests that Bilbo had brought back were nowhere to be seen.

He must have hid them.  And if Bilbo was hiding them, the chests must have been filled to the brim with dwarven treasure.

Treasure that Lobelia firmly intended to get her hands on.

“Well?”  Lobelia turned to see Bilbo was simply standing there, his gaze fixed on Belladonna’s glory box.

On the scratches she had spotted at the auction.  Scratches!  Bilbo didn’t deserve Bag End with the carelessness he displayed!

Bilbo cleared his throat, turning away.  “This way.”  His voice was rough, his shoulders slumped.

Lobelia sneered at his back – she already knew the way, thank you! – and scanned the corridor.  Noting the strange objects that had appeared since Bilbo had returned.  More books and an orc helmet of all things!  A dirty oversized tunic, frayed and stained with dark patches.  Lobelia wrinkled her nose.  Dwarvish, no doubt.  A tangle of leather and metal sat tucked in a corner.

Lobelia would clean out the dirty trinkets as soon as possible.  And that study Bilbo always holed up in – a waste of a perfectly situated room! – would be cleared, the tattered books sold for the highest price, the rest thrown into the fire.  Lobelia almost wished Bilbo would be around to see it.

Maybe he would if her next morning tea with the Thain went well.

Bilbo led her down the corridor to the dining room and Lobelia kept an eye out for the trunks.  She didn’t see them but Lobelia knew they were tucked away somewhere.  There were all kinds of hints to Bilbo’s new wealth.  Belladonna’s prized plate that he had bought back for a small fortune.  Bungo’s small carving of the party tree that had gone for only slightly less.

The wealth and riches of Bag End on display, just out of touch.  It made Lobelia grind her teeth in frustration.

And then Bilbo led her into the dining room, gesturing for her to sit down at the table where a meagre pile of scones sat on plain plates.  Bilbo might have come back from his wretched adventure with poor appetite – his clothes practically hung off him, it was _unnatural_ for a Hobbit! - but it was an insult to try and afflict the same thing on her.  With the added offence of presenting it on his least expensive crockery.  Like she was a Bolger, not a Sackville- _Baggins_ ; at all!

Her eyes narrowed.  He was doubtlessly withholding Belladonna's good Westfarthing china, like the silverware that was _hers_.

“I would like some tea.”  Lobelia gave the old pot-for-one sitting on the table a disdainful look.  “The Old Took’s brew would suffice, cousin.”

Bilbo’s eye twitched.  He opened his mouth, no doubt to say something clever-

“If you can remember where it is, cousin.”  Lobelia cut him off sweetly.  “After all, it’s probably been a long time since you’ve had some proper tea.”

He actually flinched at that, shoulders drawing in and making him look even smaller, an almost stricken look on his face.

She’d hit a nerve, Lobelia thought with satisfaction.  Punctured right through his smug all-too-clever façade.

Lobelia watched as Bilbo hurriedly left the room, almost tripping over his own feet, one hand pressed to his mouth.  After waiting a moment to be sure he wouldn’t be returning any time soon, Lobelia made her move.

Easing silently from her seat, Lobelia crept across the room and out into the corridor.  There was only one room where Bilbo would have hid the chests.

Lobelia eased down the corridor, scowling at the silver candlestick too large to salvage.  This time.

Within moments, she had slipped into Bilbo’s study.

It was as messy as ever.  Piles of books stood teetering against walls and alongside the desk.  The small bronze statuette depicting a tempting cluster of mushrooms that Lobelia had coveted for decades was, as always, high out of reach.  No doubt placed up on that niche by the wizard.  His relationship with Belladonna had always been peculiarly close.

Lobelia scowled and scanned the room, looking for the chests she had seen so briefly.  They had been small but she had not doubt they were crammed full of gold and jewels.  She had seen the small ruby Periwinkle Brandybuck had won with her own eyes.  There were more.  And Lobelia was determined to have her share.

Papers.  Books.  Desk and side table.  There was no sign of the chests.  Lobelia’s eyes narrowed.  Bilbo was clever, clever enough to divide his treasures.  Her eyes fell on the desk and a small smile bent her lips.  But he always kept them close at hand.

Scrunched balls of paper littered the floor and Lobelia kicked them aside as she made her way to the desk.  Various papers sat on top, a frenzied scatter to hide whatever was underneath.

Lobelia tossed them aside, only to scowl at the map that lay beneath.  Bilbo’s neat handwriting covered the span of mountain chains and forests.  And in one corner, above a small dragon hovering over a mountain.

Erebor.

Lobelia snorted.  The nerve to have claimed to have travelled so far when Bilbo probably hadn’t gone much further than Bree.  Facing a dragon?  He had likely gotten his treasure from the dwarves' pocket, not some mythical treasure hoard.

Lobelia tossed the map to one side, only to stop in shock when she saw the parchment that had lain beneath it.

A dwarf stared back at her.  Eyes fierce and piercing below lowered brows.  Long wild hair with barbaric braids flowing down past his beard.  He looked like a savage but someone had tried to soften the lines of his face, to make him appear-

Lobelia let out a sound of disgust.  Bilbo had lost all sense of respectability.  The filthy dwarvish clothes were one thing, but this?  Keeping the portrait of some savage dwarf half hidden in his study?  Hidden away like some shameful secret…

A pile of papers caught her eye.

Lobelia shuffled through the new papers; distracted scrawls and lines that made her stomach turn.  Unfinished letters.  Pleas for forgiveness. _Love_ letters.

She had a good idea of what Bilbo had been doing with those dwarves now.  What he had been keeping secret.

But Lobelia knew about it now.  She knew the depth to which Bilbo had fallen.  Following some dwarf around until even he had become disgusted and cast him out.

Lobelia’s eyes narrowed.  This only proved Bilbo was unfit to own Bag End.  This was beyond perversion.  Bilbo wasn’t even a _Hobbit_ anymore.

Skin prickling with revulsion at the implications, Lobelia shoved the portrait aside, trying not to even touch it.  The letters, which she had dropped in disgust, she refused to even look at.  Instead she began to thrust aside other piles, looking-

A glint of colour caught her eye.  Lobelia thrust aside a pile of accounts only to let out a gasp as parchment slid aside.

It glittered in the dim light.  A flash of jewels, far larger that the tiny fragment Periwinkle Brandybuck had flaunted.  Deep green and blue amid the icy flare of diamonds, set in delicate silver.  Lobelia had never seen anything like it.

It was more than a trinket.  It was a gift worthy of a queen.

Or a king’s mistress.

Lobelia’s mouth twisted.  Dwarvish gift or no, it was worth a fortune.  And if Bilbo had simply left it lying around, he deserved to lose it.

No doubt he had more.

A sharp jab between her shoulderblades stopped Lobelia mid-reach.  She jumped, spinning-

To find Bilbo standing eerily silent behind her, his ridiculous sword in hand.

It didn’t look so ridiculous pointed to her throat, sharp edges glittering malevolently in the light from the window.

“Bilbo.”  Lobelia took a step back, the desk pressing into her skirts and parchment scattering to the floor.  She scrabbled at the desk, pretending to catch her balance.  If she was quick, she could palm the bracelet, Bilbo none the wiser.

“Don’t.”  The hard word froze Lobelia a finger’s breath away from the glittering piece.  Bilbo gestured with the sword and Lobelia slowly stepped away from the desk.

Bilbo kept the sword trained on her as he stepped toward the desk.  His mouth flattened as he saw the mess of papers strewn all over its surface.  He picked up the portrait and carefully set it on the centre of the desk before he reached for the bracelet.

“It’s time for you to leave, Lobelia.”  Bilbo’s eyes were cold when they fixed on her.  As he spoke, he fastened the bracelet around the wrist of the hand holding the sword.  He did it easily, with only one hand as if he had done it thousands of times before.

There were tan lines on his wrist, Lobelia suddenly realized.  Faded lines that fit perfectly with the bracelet that now hung on Bilbo’s thinned wrist.

Lobelia’s face twisted.  “You may have fooled the others, Bilbo Baggins, but I _know_ what you did with that dwarf.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened in surprise and Lobelia hissed with satisfaction.  “It’s unnatural.  Disgusting!  No wonder the dwarves cast you out, no better than a thieving whore!  And you have the gall to come back to the Shire, like you _belong_ here-”

“Get out.”

Lobelia’s mouth shut with a click.

Bilbo’s eyes were cold, his face frozen in a mask of rage.  “Now.”

Lobelia took a step.  And then another.  She practically ran from the room, feet slapping against the wood floors, reaching out for the front door.

“And Lobelia.”

She froze, hand on the door handle.  How had Bilbo followed her so fast?  She hadn’t even _heard_ him.

“If I ever hear you talking about my Company-”

Lobelia’s face twisted to hear the possessive affection in his voice.  As if he was _proud_ of what he had done.

“-or any other dwarf,” his voice had lowered to a dangerous calm.  “With less than respect, know I will tell the Thain exactly what you have done these past two decades.”

Lobelia wrenched the door open and raced down the steps, taking them two at a time.  The gate banged open and she didn’t stop to close it.  She didn’t stop until she was down in the valley, out of sight of the hill.  Grasping at one of Violet Bracegirdle's fence posts and breathing hard, her pulse fluttering in her throat.

Mad.  Bilbo was mad.

Mad enough to carry out his threats no matter what it did his reputation.

Lobelia straightened and raked back her hair, tucking lank strands up under her lopsided cap.

But she _knew_ now.  Knew exactly what he was.

Her lips thinned.  There was more than one way to get her hands on Bag End.

 

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

Bilbo's shoulders sagged as he heard the front gate slam shut. He lowered Sting, drawing in a shaky breath. No doubt word of his actions would spread like wildfire through the Shire. But at least he would be spared Lobelia's visits for a while.  
  
His gaze fell on his ransacked desk. His futile efforts at a letter were scattered and cast aside as if they were nothing.  
  
Thorin's portrait was visible among them, his gaze softened by the start of the smile on his lips-  
  
Oh, how Bilbo wished that gaze was upon him now.  
  
Bilbo tore his gaze away and sheathed Sting, setting the sword down next to the desk. He picked up one of his half-finished letters and cast it aside with a sneer. No matter what he wrote it would make no difference.  
  
Or at least so he told himself. Bilbo was all too aware that not sending a letter meant he was not waiting for one in return. A torture for which he was ill equipped these days.  
  
He had left Erebor in a state of uncertainty. A grim urgency had fallen upon the mountain after the battle. Makeshift hospitals had been set up within the damaged halls. A regiment of the relatively unwounded had been caught up in the care of the sick, scrounging up supplies and running errands for the few healers Erebor retained.  
  
All those that remained worked hard in clearing the halls and making them fit for habitation. So confident - or desperate a small voice in Bilbo's mind cautioned - had Thorin been of their success, he had left orders for Ered Luin to empty and their people return to Erebor. In response to the prospect of a caravan of kin arriving within a few months, the dwarves had flung themselves into preparations.   
  
It had soon become clear that one small hobbit had little business in remaining within Erebor's great halls. Least of all one that had betrayed its king.  
  
Bilbo had left in the depth of night, finally a thief in name and deed. He had felt guilt at helping himself to supplies for the journey. Even more for keeping the gifts Thorin had given him.   
  
He would have demanded their return, Bilbo knew. But for all that had happened, the guilt he carried, Bilbo wasn't ready to let them go. Heartsick as he was, he was desperate to hold onto the tangible evidence of Thorin's affection. Evidence of his regard, no matter how short it had lasted.  
  
He had made no goodbyes. There was no one to see him leave, exiled and a traitor.  
  
Bilbo had managed to help the dwarves reclaim their home but there was no place for him. The realisation had only grown after the battle, in the way other members of the company had treated him. What familiar warmth there had been had faded.  
  
Perhaps there never had been a place for him. Bilbo had been set apart from the very beginning. Useless baggage brought along for later purpose. It wasn't until Bilbo had saved Thorin's life that things had changed. That Thorin had started to look at him differently and the Company had followed suit.   
  
Bilbo found himself tracing over the stones of the bracelet, fingertips gliding over the smooth cut surfaces.  
  
For three glorious months, he had thought that he had found his place. That there was a reason he had always felt like he had simply settled in the Shire. There was more and he had finally found it.  
  
Bilbo blinked his eyes against the sting of tears, the tight painful clutch of his chest.  
  
Bilbo turned his back on the desk, Thorin's portrait and the pile of unfinished letters. He couldn't face making another attempt today.  
  
He picked up the stained cloth sitting on the edge of the desk - pulling it out from the pile of parchment - and wrapped it around his wrist, covering the bracelet from sight.  
  
Not when he felt there was no forgiveness to be had.


	3. Chapter 3

Gorbo Sandyman hummed happily to himself as he strolled along the path from the Green Dragon, lantern hanging from his hand. Broken reflections of the lantern's gold glow flashed from the millpond as the path curved around it.  
  
Stomach full of Briar Took's delicious fish pie and Gloriana Chubb's dark ale, Gorbo was content to wander home at his own pace. He was looking forward to some tea in front of the fire. Perhaps he would smoke a pipe before retiring.  
  
He hummed along cheerfully, the path curving along the lake. It slowly rose, forking and rising to greet the Party Tree. Gorbo lifted his lantern, casting light up upon its branches as he passed. Rose Brandybuck and Tobias Cotton's smials were dark, their occupants gone to bed. Gorbo lowered his lantern, keeping the light low. Careful not to cast light into the darkened windows.  
  
He passed the Gamgee smial, heading toward the path forking down towards the pond. It felt quieter here, more isolated, even though there were smials nearby. Hidden by the hills but there.   
  
But with only the light of his lantern and the lonely road, it was somewhat spooky. Gorbo could almost imagine something lurking in the trees, watching. A fox, maybe. Some large dog slipped free from its kennel-  
  
Something large in the shadows moved.  
  
Gorbo jumped in fright, shrinking back against the side of the path. The lantern swayed wildly in his fist, casting the light up and revealing a hobbit with a naked blade in his hand.  
  
An alarmingly high pitched noise escaped him. Only to be choked back when he recognised the hobbit standing next to the path.  
  
"Master Baggins!" Gorbo clutched a hand to his chest. "What are you doing out without a lantern?"  
  
Master Baggins put the blade away. "Walking."  
  
"Well now." Gorbo fidgeted, his hand wrinkling and unwrinkling his shirtfront. He realised what he was doing and smoothed his shirt before letting his arm drop by his side. He opened his mouth then shut it again. He couldn't think of anything else to say.  
  
Master Bilbo didn't say anything either. Simply stood there in the dark, pale and ghost like. He looked unhealthily thin in the lantern light. The furthest thing from a Hobbit a Hobbit could be.  
  
Gorbo cleared his throat. "Well, I'll just be on my way. Goodnight, Master Baggins."  
  
Master Baggins blinked, his shadowed eyes focusing on Gorbo with a sudden intensity. "Goodnight, Gorbo."  
  
After a moment of anxiously shuffling his feet, Gorbo nervously bobbed his head. He started down the path to the pond, lantern clasped tightly in hand. After a few steps he dared to look back.  
  
Master Baggins was still standing on the path, watching him.  
  
Gorbo jiggled his lantern, a nervous little wave, before turning back to the path. When he next glanced back, Master Baggins was gone.  
  
He'd been somewhat strange among Hobbits, always reading and writing in Bag End. Not that it was Gorbo's place to say what a gentle Hobbit was to do with his days. But that strangeness had grown since his unexplained absence. Thought dead by all in the Shire, Master Baggins had returned dressed in strange garb, thinner, drawn and with a sword at his hip and a shield on his back.   
  
Maybe the same sword he held tonight.  
  
Gorbo suppressed a shiver. Swords weren't common in the Shire. Maybe as mathoms, hung over fires for decoration or used occasionally as rusty stakes for the odd stubborn rose or tricky bean sprout. But to carry one. It was frightening to think what Master Bilbo needed with a sword in the dead of night. Even more so why he would need one in the Shire of all places.   
  
Gorbo picked up his pace. A nice comforting smoke was suddenly looking a good deal more tempting.


End file.
